Lars Sveen - Children of God

The stranger went quiet and straightened up. He turned his eyes to Cato.

“Cato,” he said, but Cato gestured at the man to stop.

“Stay away from me,” said Cato.

“I see you, Cato,” the stranger continued. “Here you stand before us, handsome and ruthless. The generals in Rome know about you, I’ve seen it for myself, the people in the streets of Rome whisper about you: ‘Cato, Cato, a future general, a man you can depend on to lead his soldiers through the deepest valleys and into the hardest battles, his men always trusting him like their own brother.’ Don’t worry about the people we’ve defeated, those miserable subjects, don’t listen to what they think is right or what they think is wrong. Look at this light,” he said. Suddenly, the stranger was holding a burning stick in his hands. “Look at how the light falls. One moment one of my feet is in shadow, and the next it’s in the light. It keeps changing,” he said, moving the burning stick back and forth in front of him. “What’s in the light, what’s in the shadows, what’s right, what’s wrong. We’ll go on living, we’ll survive, from one day to another, from one ruler to the next.”

“I don’t know who you are,” said Cato, interrupting him, “but you’re talking crap. I don’t believe you.”

The stranger got up. He was tall, much taller than I’d thought. His head almost touched the low ceiling.

“Don’t argue with me, little soldier,” he said. He reached out to Cato, palms open. “You’re carrying this load for us,” he whispered. “You, Cato, and your soldiers. Nobody can rule an inch of the Empire without you and your men.”

“I’ve been cutting up children,” said Cato.

“No,” said the stranger. “You’re fighting a war to rid this world of chaos, to defend everything that’s been built.” Cato’s face was twisted, almost as if he were trying to smile. I wanted to back him up, but there was something inside me, and I couldn’t get the words out. It was as if they were stuck in my mouth. I looked away.

“Get away before I strike you down, old man,” said Cato.

“I’m bigger than you,” said the stranger, still with his hands held out toward Cato.

“I’ve taken on bigger men than you before, and I’d do it again,” said Cato, but his voice was quieter now.

“Little soldier,” said the stranger. “Look at me, listen to me: are you that bad a man that you’d kill me?”

“I don’t want to listen to you. I’m not a bad man,” said Cato, having started to quiver. “I can still save myself and all the others here,” he went on. “I’m waiting for a chance to do some good. I won’t do anything else bad.”

“What’s that?” the stranger said. His voice seemed like thunder, filling the entire room. “Is that some of his light coming in here? What, didn’t you get rid of the poor little creature? Take hold of my hands, little soldier.” Cato stared at the palms of the stranger’s hands. We all stared. The stranger held his hands in front of Cato, and a weak light emanated from them.

“Take hold of my hands,” the stranger said again, and this time Cato lifted his arms.

Cato looked at his own hands. “No, no,” he said. “Stay away from me.”

My eyes met his, and I thought I saw something crawling inside. I’d never seen Cato like that. He started begging, pleading. He wasn’t being a leader; he was being pathetic. His hands rose up and were heading toward the stranger’s long fingers. Cato called out to me, to Tuscus. He called to Celsus. But it was as if we were all in a peaceful sleep. What was Cato fighting against? We were tough, we were made for this life. We were the chosen ones.

The stranger wrapped his fingers around Cato’s hands and nodded. “Cato, Cato, you are mine,” he said. Suddenly Cato twitched and froze where he stood. His head was thrown back, his chest rose up, and his mouth opened, with not a sound coming out. The stranger let go of Cato’s hands, and Cato fell to the floor. I ran forward, grabbed hold of him, and Cato gazed up at me. His eyes were burning, his lips forged into a smile. There were dark hollows around his hairline, and his hair was damp.

“He’s gone,” I said, looking around. Tuscus asked what had happened.

“Nothing,” said Cato suddenly. I let go of him and got up.

“Our mission is complete,” he went on. “You did a good job, we need to sleep.” His voice sounded so clear: “Help me up.”

Tuscus took hold of him.

“Come on, Capito, help me up too,” said Cato. I put his arm around my shoulder and pulled him up. He staggered as he balanced on his feet. “I want to sleep,” he said. I nodded and said yes, looking over at the door. There was nobody there. Tuscus, who was standing with me, followed my gaze.

“I can’t remember,” said Tuscus. “All I can remember is a voice. What happened?”

“Nothing,” I said. We put Cato down and rolled a blanket around him. His eyes were closed and he was breathing normally. He had a handsome face. So young, but battle worn. With those big hands and those broad shoulders. The way the blanket had been wrapped around him, it was as if a future emperor were lying there.

I was woken by a cock crowing. Everything was wrapped in a blanket of darkness. “Go back to bed,” I muttered, but the bird was right, as the next time I opened my eyes, it was light. The world emerged. The small opening in the wall, the crack beneath the door, the bodies of the others in the room. Celsus was stirring next to me.

“How many were there last night?” he asked. I didn’t answer; I was trying to remember.

“Sixteen,” Tuscus said from the other side of the room. “We’ll have to sharpen our swords now.”

“Sixteen? Wasn’t it fourteen?” said Celsus. “You don’t need to sharpen anything, those creatures were like soft little animals.”

“I always sharpen my sword,” said Cato, clearing his throat and spitting. “It can never be too sharp. We’ve always got to keep our weapons in good order. They’re the tools of our trade.”

“But they were little children,” said Celsus. “They don’t count as much as a fully grown Jew.”

“Divide it by two,” barked Cato. “That makes eight, or seven.”

“Eight,” said Tuscus.

“Seven,” said Celsus.

“It was more than that,” I said. “At least ten.”

“You mean divided by two or not?” asked Celsus.

Tuscus started sniggering, and Celsus followed him. Then Cato started laughing too, and I immediately joined in. We were filled with such power that it was as if nothing could stand in our way. We laughed, we got up, we found our way to each other. Cato put his arm around me, I put my arm around Tuscus, and Tuscus put his arm around Celsus. We were one, and the sound of our power must have reached out right across Bethlehem.

Jacob’s coming up on forty now, and it looks like it’ll be an auspicious age for him. I see him less and less, but if you see your grown-up children too much, it means they’ve still got a long way to go. I think Jacob is searching for everything that was hidden from him, and is finding it. It could’ve been the opposite; he could’ve tried to hide everything that had found its way to him.

The last time he was here, I noticed that his hair had lost its grip on top of his head. He didn’t try to conceal it, and I tried not to stare. My own hair is long, with locks falling down from my head and over my shoulders. Sarah, Jacob’s mother, had such hair that I couldn’t get to sleep at night. I stayed awake, my fingers entwined in a weave I never thought would let me go. But she died, and I smoothed oil into her hair, packed it in cloth, and lowered Sarah’s whole body down into the ground. When I saw Jacob’s bald scalp that last time, I felt it was a sign: now Sarah’s body has rotted away. The very weave that was to cling to me forever is no more.